The Parlour of 221B Baker Street
by MashaDewdrop
Summary: Watson tries to understand what the feelings between himself and Holmes actually are. It leads them both to very dark and wonderful places within them.
1. Chapter 1

A fire burned merrily in the parlour of 221 B Baker Street. The logs crackled as the flames jumped over them, throwing out the heat. Unfortunately the atmosphere between the two men sitting in front of the fir was like ice.

They both sat with their legs crossed and arms folded, closing themselves off. Watson, however, couldn't sit still. Fiddling his fingers, softly tapping his foot. He was not comfortable in the silence. He knew something needed to be said, things needed to be aired out, but his masculine pride wasn't going to let him be the one to falter first. Holmes appeared almost content with the situation. He sat staring into the fire, looking perfectly composed. But Watson knew him better. He could see Holmes' jaw clench and unclench sporadically and he took small pleasure in knowing his friend was as discomfited as he.

"And so he should", Watson thought to himself, brushing an imaginary piece of fluff off his trouser leg. "This is all his fault."

He threw an annoyed glance at his companion. Holmes appeared not to notice.

"I mean", Watson kept going, "I am allowed mention my own fiancés' name whenever I choose. Or my wedding date. Just because Holmes wants to act like a spoilt child losing his faithful side-kick, that's not my fault!"

So why on Earth did he feel like it was his fault. Watson had been living in the house himself and Mary planned to occupy after their wedding day for nearly a month. Yet he spent nearly every evening in his old rooms, sipping port, lecturing Holmes on the dangers of leaving the various lethal potions and inventions that tended to explode strewn about the place or discussing the cases that had arrived. Invariably Homes had already solved them, but this way he got to relive it and impress Watson with his great deductive reasoning. Though Watson acted thoroughly exasperated by his friends blatant showing off, Holmes never failed to amaze him. These evenings were enjoyable and comfortable and always Watson nearly wished he didn't have to get up and return to his house. It felt like old times then and a part of Watson was not ready to give it all up.

Then there were the nights when they ended up in a blazing row or sitting in frigid silence. But it always began the same. Watson would make mention of Mary or his impending nuptials and Holmes would pout his lips and cast some belittling remark upon the woman, or indeed, Watsons' intellect for choosing a marital state instead of staying a carefree bachelor. Watson would rise to the occasion every time and respond heatedly that just because Holmes was content to live, stuck in the rut of 221B Baker Street, never moving forward, that was up to him. But he, Watson, was not planning on wasting his life. They would continue back and forth until Holmes would order Watson from the premises or Watson would just storm out of his own accord. After a few days would send a message around to Watson, inviting him back to discuss an interesting case he had been working on that day. Watson would be careful not to mention his fiancée. Yet sometimes something would just slip out and it would start all over again.

This evening was different, however. Watson had arrived with the specific intent of telling Holmes that he and Mary had finally settled upon a date. Holmes had reacted exactly as Watson had known he would. They started to argue, standing facing toward each other. Holmes was more animated than usual.

"You don't need to waste yourself in marital drudgery just because that is what expected of you. You may as well throw yourself in the Thames for you will never be happy with that or any woman!"

That had infuriated Watson.

"Just because the only woman you ever wanted to spend your life with would rather traipse around the world committing various unlawful acts, don't think we are all condemned to an empty life!"

All the animation drained from Holmes' face. He sunk into his armchair, an air of utter sadness surrounding him. Watson sat in the chair opposite. He knew he couldn't leave after what he had said. He was annoyed beyond words at Holmes and his childish handling of the situation. But mixed with that annoyance was a strong feeling of guilt. He knew his last statement had been out of line. He looked up at Holmes again but the detective was still staring into the flames, his jaw clenching and unclenching. He looked rather dejected - a look that seemed so out of place.

"Just apologise", Watsons' inner dialogue spoke up again. "You know you will in the end."

Watson opened his mouth but it was Holmes who spoke first.

"I never felt that way about Ms. Adler. She intrigues me. Fascinates me. I never had those inclinations."

He spoke in a rather bored and empty voice. It sounded like he was reciting a list of ingredients for one of his concoctions.

"But my life never felt empty. I had cases to keep my mind active and keen, money enough to let me continue my interests. I also had an interesting and educated companion to while away the days. Now that is changing."

Watson had never heard Holmes speak so candidly about anything. It left him speechless for a time. Holmes didn't appear to be looking for a response. He was staring into the fire again.

"Nothing will change too much, Holmes", Watson said finally. "I shall still visit and help on cases from time to time."

"Perhaps it is time you went to your new abode, Watson. I fear I have said more than I intended."

Watson nodded and picking up his coat and hat he moved towards the door.

"I shall see you soon, Holmes."

The detective just looked up and gave a brief nod of his head. Watson suddenly noticed just how tired and washed out the other man looked. Holmes' eye met Watsons and there Watson saw a look that he had never seen before. He couldn't fathom it, but it was powerful. If Watson had been feeling uneasy after the fight they had had, he felt down-right wrong now. He hailed a hansom and as he journeyed towards his house he realised that once again he felt guilty. Not guilty over what he had said but guilty because he had left his friend alone in their old home, guilty that he hadn't stayed longer. Indeed he felt guilty in that moment for the fact he had moved out and had decided to get married. He wasn't sure where that guilt came from but it was followed by the parting look Holmes had given him.

As he prepared for bed the feeling of guilt had not subsided and the image of Holmes remained.


	2. Chapter 2

The next morning Watson felt tired and unrested. He had been dreaming horrible dreams for most of the night. The most vivid of which was Holmes sitting in front of the empty fire place in the darkened parlour of 221B. Watson could not understand why he didn't just get up out of the chair. Walking towards Holmes, he saw his friends hands had been nailed to the arm-rests, his legs nailed to the seat. Holmes was staring at Watson through dead eyes.

"You could have saved me, John."

Watson woke up suddenly, breathing heavily. He was covered in sweat. It took him a moment to realise that it had only been a dream and that Holmes was not actually sitting dead somewhere, nailed to his chair.

But as he got up and splashed his face with cold water, he could not completely shake off the uneasy feeling the dream had left him with.

A full day of seeing patients as well as a clinic in the morning for anybody suffering from chest complaints lay ahead of him. Actually he was quite glad for the busy day for Watson was a man given to worry and over-analysis if left to turn things over in his mind for too long.

He sat to breakfast, after washing and shaving, and read through some patient notes before moving on to the room at the front of the house that he and Mary had agreed was to be his surgery.

As Watson had anticipated the clinic and his patients had kept his mind wonderfully occupied. He never got a chance to think about Holmes, of their fight the previous night or even the nightmares. He was called out on an emergency toward the end of his clinic hours. A horse and cart had over-turned and a young man had become trapped underneath the cart. By the time Watson arrived quite a crowd had formed. The horse had already been righted and led away but they were too afraid to move the boy until the doctor gave the say so. After examining the prone victim, Watson declared that he was concussed with cuts and bruises with the possibility of a leg broken. Gently some men from the surrounding crowd eased the boy out and on further inspection Watson diagnosed his leg as unbroken but badly sprained. The young man thanked Watson over and over as he was helped away after his ordeal. One of the rescuers,

"A coalier, by the look of him," thought Watson, tipped his cap toward the doctor in acknowledgment as he walked away. Watson returned the gesture and he too left to return to his house where he hoped his new housekeeper, the stern but reliable, Mrs. Cuckold, had lunch prepared.

On the walk back Watson found himself thinking of Holmes and their fight. He would have to see the detective again soon. He would not feel right with himself until he had talked to his old friend.

His lunch indeed was set out on the dining table and there was no patients there to disturb his meal. Mrs. Cuckold had stacked his messages in a neat pile beside his plate. Before he even touched his food Watson shuffled quickly through the stack, hoping to find an envelope with Holmes' familiar script. But none was there and Watson felt uncharacteristically disappointed. There was a letter from Mary on gently scented paper, however. It was reminding him that they were to have dinner with her parents at the Royale that night - in case he had forgotten. Indeed he had forgotten and indeed was in no mood to attend but he had already agreed and a voice kept sounding in his head;

"Only because you are expected to."

It was amazing how much that voice sounded like Sherlock Holmes.

The afternoon surgery hurried by and again the work swallowed up all the nagging doubts and worries swimming in Watsons' mind. Of course, all too soon the patients were gone and the grandfather clock in the hall was chiming seven o'clock.

Watson dressed in his best, picked up his walking stick that everybody knew marked him as a hero of war. A small vanity on his part. He would much rather crawl into bed and throw the quilt over his face. Instead he put on his hat and coat and started in the direction of the Royale.

Having decided to walk, Watson arrived with only moments to spare. He was shown to a table underneath a rather garish painting where Mary and her parents were already seated.

"Forgive me", Watson approached the table. Marys' father stood and shook Watsons' outstretched hand.

"Nothing to, old bean", the man took his seat as Watson kissed his wifes' hand. "Just arrived ourselves."

Watson took his seat beside Mary. They inclined their heads and smiled. Mary looked radiant and seemed to positively beam - Watson found his smile to be somewhat forced. The usual tittle-tattle was the primary conversation over dinner. The weather, the day they had, Mary regaling them about her young students newest exploits. Watsons attention, which was hanging on by a thread, now started to wan completely. Unconsciously, he was examining Mary. She was tall and slender. Pale but with a warm friendly face. Very neat and put together with impeccable manners and a refined lady-like attitude. All in all the perfect wife for a London doctor. So is that why he was sitting there eating a rather disappointing beef Wellington?

"Would you stop!", Watson brought himself up sharply. "You are over-thinking because of what Holmes put in your head, you dolt! You love Mary and Mary loves you and THAT is why you are here."

He was annoyed with Holmes all over again and this must have shown on his face because, with a start, Watson, realising he must have become lost in his thoughts completely, noticed Mary was asking him if everything was alright.

"John, are you with us at all?" Mary sounded anxious and just a little irritated.

"Yes, my dear, yes", Watson looked up and saw that Marys' parents were looking as worried as she.

"I am sorry. I had a difficult case today. A young man trapped under a cart. It was touch and go for a moment. I was just wondering how he was recovering." Living with Holmes, he had learned to lie fluidly.

Marys father who was a retired army doctor, nodded his head in understanding.

"Aye, sometimes it is hard to leave the patients behind", he said knowingly.

"Yes, my girl", Marys' mother piped up, "You may get used to it. At times you shall be a widow to the profession."

She didn't say it with any degree of malice, more, years of understanding.

Watson just gave a small smile and tried to pay more attention. He was sure the dinner could not last too much longer.

It didn't and soon the small dinner party were walking toward the hansom. The younger couple walked ahead while the older couple kept a respectable distance but could still keep an eye on their only daughter.

"Are you sure everything is alright, John?" Mary kept her voice low, "You didn't seem yourself tonight."

"Yes, I am sure my dear. It was just a long busy day." Watson did not like lying to his fiancée but he did not feel much like telling her the truth either.

"Well, alright then," she didn't wholly convinced but she let the subject drop. "So shall you be paying a visit to Mr. Holmes tonight?" Mary said his name with the faint trace of disdain Holmes used when saying hers but Watson did not remark on it.

"No, no. Not tonight, I think. Bed is the place for me. I have another busy day on the horizon."

They arrived at the carriage and, after a chaste kiss on the hand, Watson bade goodnight to Mary and his future in-laws.

He felt thoroughly miserable. Between the lack of sleep due to the nightmares, worrying about his relationship with his wife-to-be and worrying just as much about Holmes, he needed a drink. He needed a stiff drink and even though he had told Mary he was going home to bed he really wanted to sit in his old rooms with a glass of port talking about the evils of the world and how himself and Holmes could put them to rights with Holmes' intellect and Watsons willingness to let Holmes of the leash. So he started walking in the direction of 221B Baker Street tapping his walking stick off the cobbled road.

Mrs. Hudson admitted Watson straight away despite the lateness of the hour.

"Wonderful to see you, Doctor", Mrs. Hudson lowered her voice conspiratorially. "I haven't heard a peep out of him all day. Mayhap you can rouse him."

"You know how he gets, Mrs. Hudson. He is probably working over the final details of a difficult case." He climbed the stairs to Holmes' rooms and a flash of Holmes nailed to the armchair shot through his head. He hesitated at the door for an instant before walking through into the parlour. The fire was lit and standing in front of it was Holmes tuning his violin.

"I was expecting you an hour ago", he gestured to the side-table where two glasses of port stood.

"I had dinner in the Royale", Watson gratefully took the glass. "With Mary and her parents."

Holmes clenched his jaw once but otherwise did not react to Watsons explanation.

Silence reigned while Watson sat down and Holmes absently examined the strings on his instrument. A letter lay open on the side-table beside the glasses. Watson reached for it.

"Lady Chatterton - her priceless Russian figurines have been stolen." Holmes did not even look up. "She had her butler - and lover - to dispose of them and they are planning to run to the continent on the insurance money."

"Ah. So you shall be bringing them to justice."

Watson felt the familiar sense of awe go through him.

"Well Lord Chatterton beats his wife quite regularly. I would be rather inclined to let her make her escape. She only wrote me the note, hoping to make it appear as if she had no hand in there disappearance."

Watson nodded. That sounded somewhat like a moral victory, but that wasn't he was there.

Now that he had satisfied the irrational part of himself that Holmes had not succumbed to some awful fate during the night, these fights had to be settled once and for all. Things could not stay the way they were and, after thinking about it during the walk up to 221B, he figured that if he could put everything to rights with Sherlock Holmes then he could rid himself of the uncomfortableness surrounding his relationship with Mary.

"I know what you are going to say, my dear Watson", Holmes sat opposite Watson taking his own glass. "And the answer is no."

"What do you mean, Holmes?", Watson played innocent. "I haven't asked you anything."

"Please Watson. Let us not do this. I know why you are here. I know you want to talk about the fact that you are getting married in three weeks and have me resign myself to the situation happily. I could see today that the fact I don't weighs heavily on you."

Watson looked up.

"I haven't seen you - ", the doctor stopped and smiled to himself. "The coalier!"

Holmes merely nodded.

"So why can't you be happy for me, Holmes?" Watson leaned forward toward his friend. "I have found a charming and wonderful lady who has agreed to be my wife and you, well to quite honest, all you do is sulk."

Holmes sprang out of the chair as if a current had run through it.

"Sulk? Of course I sulk. I am watching you fling your life away on a pointless union!"

Watson stood up too.

"It is not a pointless union", he snapped back at Holmes heatedly.

"Yes, my dear Watson, it is. You shall never be happy. Living in a soul-shattering relationship with a woman you don't actually love, all because you feel you should! Pretending to be something you are not to appease society and to do that YOU are walking away from the life that makes you happiest!"

Watson was completely taken aback by the tirade Holmes had flung at him. It took a moment for his brain and his mouth to start working in alignment again.

"So what am I to do? Give up on this engagement and move back with you here?"

Holmes, who had been pacing to the other side of the room in agitation, turned and in three quick strides stood in front of Watson. He was so close to the doctor that their noses were nearly touching.

"Yes! Because if you stopped and paid attention to yourself for one moment you would realise everything! Realise the happiest you have ever been is in these rooms. Realise that you shall never be content just being a general practitioner, when a brain like yours cries out for more aggressive stimulation and realise that Mary is not the person for you to spend the rest of your life with!"

"So who is?" Watson challenged Holmes, glaring at the detective.

"Who is the person I'm to spend the rest of my life with?"

For a moment Holmes eyes locked onto Watsons and then, as if he realised how close he was standing to the other man, he retreated back to the fire-place.

"That is something else you have to realise, my dear Watson."

With that Holmes turned his back and Watson knew the conversation was over.

He left Baker Street with a rather uneasy feeling settling in the pit of his stomach.

Watson was not someone who scared easily - after all the adventures he had undertaken with Holmes - but that conversation had left him thoroughly shaken and his mind was in worse chaos than before.


	3. Chapter 3

Watson could not get to sleep. He was too angry, too full of pent up frustration, so he sat in his study all night, getting drunk on bourbon.

"Blast him", Watson hissed into the empty room.

"Absolute rot"

Then he added

"Absolute shit!",

because there was nobody to hear him swear.

He emptied his glass and reached for the decanter, swaying slightly in his seat. Normally, two glasses was his limit, where he would feel slightly merry but still in complete control of his facilities, but tonight was for getting roaring drunk alone and cursing the worlds existence. Pathetic he knew, but he felt pathetic.

He should not have let Holmes talk to him like that. He should have said something, fought back, told him to shut up at the very least.

And he should not have let Holmes' words frustrate him as much as they did. That was the honest and true reason why Watson found himself very inebriated at four in the morning.

On the surface Holmes' words sounded ridiculous - the ramblings of the jealous and spurned friend.

Yet that voice was sounding in Watsons' ear again. Buzzing like an irritating fly. That voice - saying all the things that Watson did not want to hear.

"Holmes is right. You are not as happy here as you were sitting in that parlour."

"A long life of monotony lies ahead of you, dear Doctor. No more adventures."

"Every morning you will wake up to Mary. No more Holmes sitting across from you, dishevelled from lack of sleep."

"But I want to wake and sit across from Mary", he slurred sulkily

"And who - exactly - are you trying to convince", the voice buzzed in his ear.

"I don't have to convince anybody", Watson answered out loud. His study had started to spin making his stomach queasy, so he pressed his forehead against the cool wood of the desk. In a matter of seconds he had passed out.

The next morning the good doctor was a woken by a short, sharp prod between the shoulder blades. He sat up suddenly and instantly wished he had not done so. Sleeping with his head against the desk had left him with a pain flowing down his neck.

"Holmes!" he snapped, "There are more mannerly ways to get somebodys attention."

"Is there indeed, sir?"

Remembering that he no longer lived in Baker Street and that it could not possibly be Holmes how awoke him, Watson gingerly turned his head and found Mrs. Cuckold looking down her rather long nose.

"Oh I apologise, Mrs. Cuckold. Eh, good morning."

The housekeeper merely made a displeased noise in the back of her throat before she marched to the windows behind Watsons' desk and flung open the curtains, sending daylight flooding into the room. It may have been grey and raining outside but even the muted brightness set Watsons head pounding. As he climbed the stairs to wash and dress for the day, he felt the hangover that started to radiate through his body was something akin to torture.

The surgery that morning was just as busy as the day before but instead of helping Watson concentrate on something other than his problems, he found them thrown into greater relief. Every patient seemed to want to know how his and Marys' plans were coming along, how the new house was bearing up.

"Isn't it wonderful to be away from that odd Mr. Holmes? That is no place for a gentleman doctor", an elderly patient spoke in earnest as Watson examined her arthritic hands.

"He investigated that Mr. Dalkins insurance fraud, right by where my eldest girl lives. I would see him pacing up and down outside the house. So rude and strange and unwashed." She wrinkled her already withered nose in disgust.

Watson felt the need to defend his friend but instead gave the old lady a non-committed smile.

"And that Mary is such a sweet girl. I knew her grandmother all those years ago. She will make such a charming bride."

Watson kept his smile firmly affixed as he continued with the examination. He had the vaguest feeling that the walls were closing in on him but he ignored it as best he could.

The woman said no more until she was being helped out of the surgery by her companion.

"Well thank you , Doctor Watson. I wish you and Mary the very best for the future. She is a lovely creature and I am sure she will make a good wife and mother."

And in that instant, the walls that Watson felt were closing in on him came up and slammed him in the chest. He could not take in a breath and his head started to spin. Watson sank into the nearest chair not trusting his legs to keep him standing.

A good wife and mother…

As incredible as it may seem, Watson had never envisioned the latter. He had often imagined married life with Mary. But he had imagined going to parties, introducing her as "Mrs. John Watson", sitting in their drawing room, drinking tea and reading newspapers. Eating dinner and chatting about their day. Quiet domestic companionship.

His thoughts had never strayed to the other aspects of married life. Sharing his bed with her, perhaps naked, making love to her, _creating a family with her! _

There was no air left in the room and Watson thought he would suffocate if he stayed moment longer. He rushed out of the surgery, snapped at Mrs. Cuckold that he had been called out on an emergency, flung open the front door and half-ran into the rain.

Watson did not even notice the direction he was going, he had just absently picked a path and started walking. The rain was soaking through his clothes toward his skin, his hair was already plastered to his scalp, not that he cared much. If he had he would have remembered his over-coat and bowler.

When had everything become so bloody complicated? Last week it all had seemed so simple, all set out in a linear plan. He was to move out of Baker Street, establish a general practice, marry the young governess, become a respectable man of society and live happily ever after. Watson had never questioned that before. He had always assumed that that is what he wanted and now he was not so sure anymore. He was groomed for this! This life! It was meant to be his! Yet now he had this unquenchable urge to just keep walking. Keep walking out of the street, out of London, out of England. Just to keep walking and leave this whole sorry mess behind him.

"Aye, the cowards way out", he mumbled. He was not a man to take the easy option but as he walked he could not see a solution to his problem.

"Was there even a problem?" he thought to himself. "Could this not just be a case of cold feet?"

He was making some dramatic changes to his life. It was only natural to question those changes, to be scared going into the unknown but Watson knew, deep down, this was not a case of cold feet. This was something much more.

Still he kept walking with all these thoughts swirling in his head, unable to find a solution but unable to let the problems go.

Watson, immersed as he was in his thoughts, did not notice the two men following him. One as tall and as wide as a building, with hands to match. The other, smaller and wiry, keeping to the shadows. On any other day Watson would have been fully aware of his stalkers but he was so lost within his problems that the good doctor just kept going in the rain and led both men down a blind alley that ended abruptly in a cul-de-sac.

"So? Wha' we go' 'ere, den?"

Watson turned around to leave the dead-end alley and found himself face-to-face with the human house. Problems forgotten, Watson assessed the situation and quickly came to the conclusion that he was in big trouble. The thug was two feet bigger than Watson in every direction, and was drawing a rather sharp blade from the confines of his coat. Watson still walked with the aid of a cane and had left his trusted pistol in the second drawer of his desk in the study. As he tried to think of possible strategies, the man slowly advanced, with a smile showing green teeth.

"Alright, lets not do anything too stupid", Watson raised his hands in the universal sign of peace, his cane still clutched in his right fist.

"You mean loike, takin' tha' dagger ou' of its little 'idey 'ole?" The big man kept advancing.

"I have money". Watson tried a different tack, his element of surprise very obviously in ruins. "Its yours - just let me walk out of here unharmed." Perhaps he could get in a lucky punch if he could get close enough.

Unfortunately the assailant seemed to have thought of that as well and with speed that seemed almost impossible for a man of his girth, he relieved Watson of his cane, pinned the doctor against the wall of the alley with the blade pressed against his throat.

"All in good time, Doctor! But first we shall leave a little message for your friend, Sherlock 'olmes", the man was leaning flush against Watson, breathing rancid breath. "I'm thinkin yer life-less corpse strung up out-side the Dog and Tower sounds gun'n'proper. Should ge' 'is attention!

"Or perhaps, kind sir, you could you just tell me yourself."

In the mouth of the ally stood the shorter, wiry man, aiming Watsons gun.

"Holmes!"

The distraction of having a loaded pistol pointed at his forehead gave Watson the opportunity he needed to work his good leg up, and using his foot, sunk it into the would-be assassins stomach. He was able to get enough purchase to send the man stumbling, allowing Watson to make his escape.

Holmes threw the pistol towards Watson as the doctor took his place beside the detective, who, in turn, had taken out his trusted stick. He would be lethal with it if necessary.

"So, about this message?" Holmes twirled the stick between his fingers, taunting the trapped hulk. "I would rather like to hear it now."

Both men took a fighting stance, Watson cocking his pistol, well aware that the man they were facing could tear them limb from limb if he got close enough.

Then, like a charging bull, he advanced and as Holmes and Watson prepared to engage him, he barrelled right through them, sending Holmes into the alley-wall and Watson sprawling onto his back.

By the time either man had gotten to his feet the cockney with the blade had vanished.

"Are you alright, my friend?" Holmes turned to Watson and gave his friend a visual check-up making sure that no obvious injuries had been sustained.

"A little shaken. But that is all, thanks to you." Watson gratefully grasped his comrade about the shoulders. Never in his life had he been so glad to clap eyes on that unshaven form.

"Anytime, old friend. Though I fear I have let that creature abscond with your walking stick."

Looking around him, Watson realised Holmes was right.

"Well blast him! At least he has not made off with my throat."

"Come", Holmes offered his arm. "You may lean on me. I must go back to Baker Street to process these new events and I am sure a glass of port is much needed. Wouldn't you say, Doctor?"

"I would say it is absolutely vital." Watson took the offered arm and the two men set off toward 221B.

Watson was slightly amused to discover that the alley was situated only a stones throw from his former home, as if his feet had, sub-consciously, been bringing him there. However, he did not allow himself to dwell to much on that fact as he really was feeling quite shaken after the encounter. He fancied he could still feel the blade pressed against his neck.

Mrs. Hudson was standing in the hallway of the house as both men walked in, dishevelled, wet and spattered with mud and though she looked worried, she had long since learned not to ask questions. The men trooped up Holmes' rooms where the detective helped ease Watson into his old arm-chair. The parlour smelled vaguely of stale air and Watson noted the chill. That meant that Holmes had not yet lit the fire that day, nor perhaps, the previous night.

A flash came through his mind of his previous nightmare. Holmes sitting immobile in his armchair, in front of the empty fireplace. But instead of being nailed down in place, a syringe was sticking out of his forearm.

"I thought a change of clothes and some hot tea would be more appropriate than that glass of port, right now." Holmes broke the day-dream and threw some worn but mercifully dry clothes into Watsons lap.

"I promise I won't look."

Holmes left the room, most likely to bully Mrs. Hudson into making that tea. Watson changed into the articles of clothing, which he discovered were pieces of his that he had "misplaced", and a number of questions began to occur to him.

"Holmes", he said as the detective walked in with the tea laden tray. "Not that I am not grateful that you were there to rescue this afternoon, but I can't help but wonder why you were there at all?"

Holmes put the tray down and went to the fireplace to start building the fire.

"Maybe we should get some heat before you catch pneumonia and utterly undo all my good work this afternoon." Holmes said. "Then I shall answer any questions."

The warmth of the fire was welcome as was the tea, though Watson was looking forward to that promised glass of port, Holmes took his seat on the opposite side of the table, facing Watson.

"So?" Watson prompted. The detective looked at him in puzzlement as if to say, so what?

"Why were you in the alley" Watson tried not to sound exasperated with the man who had saved his life.

"Oh yes". Holmes settled back into his seat. "Simply put, I was following you."

Watson looked over the rim of tea cup.

"You were following me?" he allowed some measure of exasperation creep into his voice. "Why were you following me this time?"

"After our slight to-do last night I saw a man, from my window, follow you on the way to your house. I thought perhaps he was a mugger, so I too followed. Yet, to my surprise, all he did was walk behind you and let you enter your house unmolested. Though he kept your house under surveillance. Naturally my curiosity was aroused and I sat out all night watching the man who remained there watching you."

Watson sat listening, feeling slightly sick at the thought of that man sitting outside his house all night.

"I was afraid your stalker might try and enter your house, posing as a patient the next morning. But then you bolted from your surgery and he took off after you. I had deduced you had neglected your pistol as you had your hat and coat, so I had your housekeeper let me in and I retrieved your gun. I must confess I was a trifle worried you would discover your overly-large shadow before I caught up to you, but you seemed so lost in your own world you never noticed."

Watson grinned sheepishly.

"And now all you have to do is deduce why that man was sent to kill me in the first place."

Holmes steepled his fingers and concentrated his eyes on nothing for a moment.

"Well the most obvious thing we know is however sent our friend today, knows us well enough to know where you live and that the most effective way to get to me is through you. They are ruthless. They are willing to let you die, though they do not need you dead. Most certainly they need me very much alive, that being the only reason our friend fled the alley without putting up a fight. I shall need to investigate further of course, before I can draw anymore conclusions. One thing, however is crystal clear."

Watson had been gripping the arm rests.

"What, exactly, is crystal clear?"

"That you cannot return to your house. I highly doubt that they will make a second attempt upon your life, but I cannot rule out that possibility.

I have already sent men around to collect your things."

"You propose I stay here!" Watson sounded truly exasperated now. "This is no longer my home, Holmes."

"No, my dear Watson", Holmes spoke as one does to an unreasonable child. "But your home is where they spied on you and followed you and ultimately tried to kill you to get to me. You will be much safer here."

Watson knew he was right so he just sat back in his chair and nodded his head once. Though he would never admit it, the tension he had been carrying on his shoulders and in his chest lessened at the idea of again taking rooms at Baker Street.

"I have asked Mrs. Hudson to get word to…. Mary…. about the recent events and subsequent change of plans", Holmes practically spat out the sentence like a bad taste.

Watson let out a loud pained groan.

"When are you going to let this go Holmes?" He really did not want to enter into this fight now. Not after all that had happened and also knowing how unsure and uncertain he was about everything. He still needed much time to figure it out.

Yet, he still heard himself arguing against Holmes.

"You need to accept that this is happening!"

Watson felt his stomach drop at the realization that he didn't like those words. But he could not give Holmes the satisfaction of being right. This was their dynamic.

"And you need to accept that it should not be happening! That it is a very bad idea indeed." Holmes spoke calmly and rationally and that infuriated Watson. He took to his feet and started to pace the room, making sure he kept his eyes anywhere but on the man in the armchair.

"Who are you to deduce this? You do not know what goes on in my head, Holmes! What makes me happy and what does not. You are only projecting your own unhappiness onto myself, wishing that I would want to give up this engagement to the point where you have convinced yourself that it is the truth!" Watson ranted toward the book-case.

"Or perhaps, my dear Watson", Holmes still spoke in that maddening calm and factual voice. "Since I have lived with you for these past years I have learned what you are like in happiness and in sadness."

Watson kept his eyes firmly averted, but said nothing.

Holmes stood up and walked over to the fire. He kept talking.

"Do you think I have not noticed the slight sag to your shoulders and the shadows under your eyes as if you are carrying the weight of the world. You have not shaved as close as you used to, nor are your clothes as neat, tells me you are in a depression, your mind clearly on other things."

Holmes paused for a moment but Watson remained silent so he continued.

"You talk about Mary and your marriage as a soldier talks about taking up his duty.

And do you not think I don't see your spirits lift when you sit in this room. You smile and your eyes gleam but they start to fade when you return to that house."

Watson was still resolutely staring at the bookcase but could see Holmes making his way toward him.

"And last night, my friend, you finally realised what the future held if you continued on with the engagement. That is why you stayed up all night drinking bourbon."

Watson was about to ask how Holmes knew that, when the memory of the attempt on his life came flooding back and Watson took a moment to wonder when life would cease to be quite so complicated.

"And, I shall hazard a guess, that the reason you left your house so abruptly today was that it finally became too much for you and you needed an escape. No matter how brief."

Holmes was standing right in front of Watson now.

"What makes you draw that conclusion?" The doctor now looked straight at the detective. Holmes just chuckled.

"Because, Watson, you left without your hat and coat. Nothing short of the imminent collapse of the world as we know it would cause a respectable Englishman to leave his house in the rain without such important articles."

Watson could not suppress a small laugh of his own. Of course Holmes would have seen all the clues and solved the case.

"Your home shall always be here, Watson, even after this case is solved."

Watson stopped laughing and gave a small sad shake of his head. He had made up his mind about what to say while Holmes had been talking.

"I could never do that to Mary, Holmes." And for the first time he spoke out-loud what had been weighing so heavily on his mind.

"No matter how much I want to."

Then like a flash of lightening and over just as quickly, Holmes' lips were on Watsons' and he pressed them softly before withdrawing.

Watson was so shocked he could not think of anything to do or say in response. He could just stare at Holmes, who seemed just as shocked by his rashness. Neither knew how long they stood there, staring, but the silence was broken by a sharp rap at the parlour door.

"Come in!" Both men yelled, breaking the trance.

Mrs., Hudson walked in.

"Dr. Watson, your fiancee is waiting in my sitting room. She is in a bit of a state."

"Thank you Mrs. Hudson." Watson regained use of his vocal cords. "I will go to her directly."

As he went to follow the landlady out, he glanced back at Holmes who was still standing, dazed.

Watson walked down the steps to his bride-to-be and he could swear he still felt the wetness of the other mans kiss on his lips.


End file.
